Judge and Juror
by CamsthiSky
Summary: Anonymous asked: I was just wondering if you would like to write a story set during bvs and how Nightwing could be involved there?


**I didn't think that this would get this long, but it just happened. Very special thanks to jerseydevious on tumblr for the wonderful rabbit stream of BvS as well as providing facts and info about the movie since I'd only seen it once. She was happy to answer my bazillion questions, and if you ever want to scream at her about this movie, I'm sure she probably wouldn't mind.**

* * *

Dick's dozing on the couch when his phone rings, and he can't be bothered to look at the caller ID before he answers with a tired, "'lo?"

The voice on the other line sounds faintly amused. _"A bad time to call, Master Richard?"_

"Alfred!" Dick exclaims, suddenly a lot more awake (and panicked) than he had been a few seconds ago. He looks around at the state of his apartment and barely refrains from cursing. Alfred is supposed to bring a few meals over tonight, and Dick had completely forgotten. He's up in record time, shoving dirty dishes into the sink. "Are you on your way already?"

 _"I'm afraid not,"_ Alfred says, and Dick lets the last dishes sink into the soapy water, blinking in surprise at the regret in the old man's voice. _"Something has come up and it is up to me, unfortunately, to attend to it for Master Wayne."_

Dick winces. "Ouch. It's Wayne now, is it? What did he do?"

 _"Oh, you know how he is,"_ Alfred sighs.

"Unfortunately," Dick mutters lowly, cradling his phone between his shoulder and his cheek as he starts on the dishes. With his luck, Alfred will probably find a way to be here in the morning despite his obligations, and Dick doesn't want the butler walking in on anything less than an Alfred-approved apartment.

Alfred doesn't say anything for a long moment, but when he does, he sounds tired. Old. _"I wish you two would find a way to get over this bump in the road."_

"Try Mount Everest," Dick says, his voice cold. He scrubs the next plate unnecessarily hard, and he's glad in this moment that Alfred had the forethought to gift him plates not easily broken, like the china in the Manor. He sets the plate in the other basin to soak. "Besides, I already tried to get over it, and we both know how well that turned out."

 _"Master Richard,"_ Alfred says, and Dick wants to roll his eyes at the _listen here_ voice. He won't, since Alfred seems to have this uncanny ability to sense when Dick's not taking him seriously. _"It is true that he is stubborn, but he is not the only one to blame in this, and I think you know that."_

Dick sets down the pan he's scrubbing on the counter and grips the phone tight in his hand. "I _tried,"_ Dick snaps. "I listened to what he had to say, and then when I tried to explain _why_ I wanted this, _he_ shut me down."

And hell. Dick can't even say his name. Can't even _think_ it without feeling the anger pool into his stomach. Alfred seems to understand this, because he backs off after a moment.

 _"I understand,"_ Alfred says. _"It is not easy for him to let people in, but you're right in that he had no excuse not to listen to your reasons. I did not mean to start an argument, Master Richard."_

Dick deflates, hanging his head and running a hand over his face. He wishes he could just wipe away the exhaustion from his face, sometimes. He wishes he could finally—after god knows how long—be free of this whole thing. But he'll never be free of it. He'll never be free of _him._

"No, no," Dicks says as the anger drains from him. "It's fine. Sorry for getting upset. I'm not mad at you, Alfie."

 _"I had hoped not, seeing as I will still be delivering that roast for you tomorrow morning before your shift. It'd be terribly awkward to hand you food while angry."_

Dick cracks a smile. Jackpot. "I'll always accept free food from you."

 _"Very good, sir,"_ Alfred says, and there's something like amusement in his voice, too. _"As for my call, it was only to inform you of the schedule change, but I enjoyed speaking with you, Master Richard."_

"Yeah, you too, Alf," Dick says.

They exchange a few more pleasantries, Dick goes for a pun, just to hear Alfred chuckle slightly, and then they hang up. It's just Dick alone in his apartment, drying dishes at seven in the evening, still feeling pretty worn out from both the day and the force of his emotions he'd been accidentally forced to feel.

Maybe he can fit in a nap between whatever dinner will be and patrol.

The doorbell rings. Dick finishes drying the last plate, and makes his way over to the front of his apartment, peeking out the peephole, because he definitely didn't remember inviting anyone over. Although, he could definitely go for a pizza since Alfred won't be coming around tonight.

It's a guy, and Dick frowns. Glasses, dark hair, plaid shirt. He doesn't look like he should be anywhere near this part of town, or even _in_ this city. Not wary enough, just standing outside the door like he wouldn't be robbed at any second. Definitely not from Blüdhaven.

He looks nice, though, and Dick thinks of himself as a somewhat decent person, so he opens the door. Not by much, though, because he's pretty sure his bedroom door is open a little behind him, and he left the Nightwing suit puddled on the floor next to his bed where he had shed it early this morning.

"Hi," Dick says, a pleasant grin on his face. "Can I help you?"

The man blinks. "Are you Richard Grayson? Or—Richard Wayne?"

Dick's grin falls from his face, and his heart speeds up. Automatically his eyes search the hallway of the apartment complex to make sure there are no prying eyes. Doesn't mean that there isn't anybody else listening in, too, so Dick just looks the man over again.

"Who are you?" Dick asks. "And what do you want with me?"

"Oh!" The man fumbles with something in his pocket before he brings out an ID badge. He shows it to Dick. "I'm Clark Kent, a reporter for the Daily Planet, and I just wanted to ask you a few questions."

Dick frowns at the badge, still a little uneasy. He thinks maybe it's the paranoia instilled in him from nine years old, and Dick feels enough indignation to open the door wider. "You should come in before you get robbed for everything you're carrying."

Kent blinks, and man, this guy is kind of clueless, isn't he? Nevertheless, he still steps inside and allows Dick to close the door behind him.

"You're welcome to sit down," Dick says, gesturing to the couch as he passes his bedroom door and pulls it shut. Then he makes his way to the kitchen, and calls over his shoulder, "Can I get you anything to drink?"

"Just…water is fine," Kent says, fidgeting a little on Dick's couch. "Thanks."

Dick sets a glass of water down on the coffee table in front of the reporter and plops down on the armchair closest to Kent. He's still a little wary, but Dick's a born performer. And it's an _interview._ He's been doing these for the past fifteen years of his life. Just has to be careful of what he says, and he'll be golden.

"What can I do for you Mr. Kent?" Dick asks amicably, a charming smile plastered on his face.

"Call me Clark," Kent—Clark—says, and he takes a sip of his water. "Mr. Wayne—"

"Dick," because he's always hated formalities, and he can't think of that name without wanting to punch the bastard it belongs to in his stupid face. "Dick Grayson. I was never adopted, so I kept my last name."

There's something in Clark's eyes, but he doesn't comment. Dick smiles again, the charm just a little less gracious than before, and he keeps up the act. Just an interview.

"Dick," Clark says carefully. "You used to live in Gotham, correct?"

The tension is returning to Dick's shoulders, and he doesn't like where any of this is going. But still, Dick stays where he is. The smile's fallen for good now, and Dick doesn't have the energy to keep trying to keep it on his face. "Yes. Why?"

"I was wondering what you could tell me about the Gotham Bat?"

Dick can't believe his ears. He knows that he should probably close his mouth, but he seriously can't believe this guy tracked down Dick Grayson, found out where he _lived,_ all to ask him about Batman when there are plenty of other to people to ask less than hours' drive in Gotham.

"Why are you asking _me?"_ Dick can't help but wonder. "I don't know if you know, but I haven't stepped foot in Gotham for almost two years, and I haven't lived there in almost five."

Clark looks grim. "I'm sorry," he says, and then he pulls out an old newspaper form his bag and hands it over to Dick, who takes it without a word. "It's just, I found these while I was researching the Bat. That's you, isn't it?"

It's an article from thirteen years ago, and _"The Bat Saves Wayne Heir,"_ is written in bold black letters across the top of the page. The main picture is of an eleven-year-old boy hugging Gotham's richest man after a kidnapping by one of Gotham's Rogues. Dick can't even remember who it was that had been responsible, and he doesn't read it to find out. It was just one incident of many.

"Yes, that's me," Dick confirms with a tight voice as he hands it back to Clark. "But that was almost fifteen years ago. I barely remember it."

Dick's not lying. He's stopped trying to remember each one of his kidnappings after Two-Face had almost beat him to death when he was twelve. He _does_ remember what the kidnappers had liked to call him—mostly as Robin. _Boy Hostage,_ they'd mock him as he was strung up by his hands to await the Batman.

"But what about the Bat?" Clark stresses, leaning forward a bit. There's something grave about his expression, and it makes Dick kind of want to run away from the conversation. He doesn't want to talk about Batman. Anything else, he'd be fine. Anything else. But Clark is persistent. "Was he violent?"

"To me?" Dick asks, eyebrows furrowed. His mind is racing, trying to figure out where this is leading, and he's coming up blank.

"To the kidnapper," Clark clarifies.

Dick shrugs. "I…guess? I mean, I think that was the time they'd locked me in a cooler and threatened to throw me in the harbor. But Batman's always been—harsh, I guess. Gotham's not exactly a nice place."

"I've talked to a few people in Gotham, and some seem to think that Batman is the city's protector," Clark tells him. "But there are others that think he's evil, and that he needs to be stopped. They're starting to fear for their lives."

Dick runs a hand throw his hair, and shoots Clark a questioning look. "…Evil? That's—that's a new one."

He remembers a lot of their early arguments that had ended up with Dick calling him out with childish insults like "meanie-head" and "backstabbing butt face" and Dick's favorite, "you're the reason cereal goes soggy." They'd argued a lot, but never, not even now, has Dick thought of him as _evil._

Clark jumps on that, though. "What do you mean?"

"Well," Dick hesitates, cringing slightly, "I mean. He has a no kill rule, right? Everyone knows Batman doesn't kill. They get hospitalized, sure, and sometimes it might go a little too far, but Batman doesn't kill. It's like, a fundamental truth of living in Gotham."

"I think," Clark says slowly, pulling out another newspaper, this one much newer looking, out of his bag and handing it over, "that you've been away from Gotham a little too long."

Dick swallows and tries not to show how bad he's really panicking inside. This—This can't be right. It _can't_ be. He would _never_ —or maybe he would. Dick doesn't know. They haven't talked since right after Jason was—

This is insane. Dick looks up sharply at Clark and tries to ignore the fact that the paper is trembling slightly in his hands. "Is this true?"

"Yes," Clark says solemnly. "Every word."

Dick licks his lip and he can't hand the paper back fast enough. "I think that this interview is over. I have an early shift at the station tomorrow, and I still haven't eaten," Dick says, getting to his feet.

Clark follows reluctantly, but he seems to understand that Dick isn't going to say anything more. Dick walks him to the door, and Clark smiles at him sadly. "Look," he says right before he's about to walk out of the apartment. "I know that the Bat helped you in the past, but to me it seems like he's gone down a dark path. He needs to be stopped."

Dick swallows the lump in his throat, and he meets Clark's eyes when he says, "Yes. He does."

And then Clark's gone, and Dick flying through his bedroom door, pulling on the Nightwing suit, and climbing out the window onto the fire escape.

Batman needs to be stopped. And it's Nightwing who is going to stop him.

* * *

Dick shows up in Gotham that night, but to his utter frustration, he can't find Batman. He doesn't have a comm. unit anymore—he'd crushed his after the last fight—so he can't just announce himself to Batman. He stops a few crimes here and there, and there are a few criminals who look relieved to see _Nightwing,_ and it's just a reminder of how bad the situation is right now.

He doesn't dare go to the manor, though, and he won't go to the Cave unless someone has a life-threatening injury, so his only option is to keep patrolling Gotham until Batman figures out he wants to chat and comes to kick him out.

Maybe then Dick can knock some sense into that thick skull of his.

Batman doesn't show up, and the Batsignal is dark the rest of the night, so around 4 am, Dick finally cuts his losses and makes his way to Blüdhaven to wait for Alfred to bring over the food he had promised before his eight am shift.

It's a minor setback, but Dick isn't going to give up.

* * *

"He's _branding_ them," Dick says again, palms flat on the table as he leans forward, because Alfred doesn't seem to be listening. "He's giving these people a death sentence! He can't think that this is okay!"

Alfred sends him a sharp look over the kitchen table. "I am well aware of what Master Wayne is doing, and I believe he is, too. He's determined to find _something,_ and he's doing what he believes is necessary to get it done."

Dick wants to scream. He doesn't.

"It's always about the stupid mission with him," Dick hisses, smacking his palm against the table a few times, until it starts to sting. "Next you'll be telling me he's using _guns._ "

There's an oppressive silence in the air as an answer and Dick has to sit down. This can't— _what?!_ No. _No._ That isn't even possible. Except, Alfred's face has fallen, and he looks like he's aged ten years in the fifteen minutes he's been in Dick's apartment.

"You're kidding," Dick says faintly, all the anger fading out of him to make room for the disbelief. He's pale, he knows. He's pale and shaky and dizzy, and Dick wonders if this is what it feels like to have the literal life drained out of you. Alfred still doesn't say anything, and his quiet is all Dick needs to confirm that _this_ is the reality he's living in. "After everything he's said to me?"

"He believes it is necessary," Alfred repeats, distaste twisting his lips.

"He thinks everything he does is necessary," Dick snaps, the anger back in full force, and he stands up again. He still feels like he's going to fall over, but he paces anyways. He's too agitated to stand still. "And if what you think doesn't line up with what he thinks, then you can pack your bags, because he won't tolerate it for even a _second."_

"Master Richard," Alfred chides quietly. "That is enough."

Dick stops pacing, and he winces. "Sorry, Alfie."

Alfred sighs, stands up, and settles a hand on Dick's shoulder, squeezing lightly. "I will do my best to reason with him, but in the past, it has only been you that has snapped him out of his obsessions."

Dick doesn't think that's even a little bit true. At the most, Dick has curbed them for a short time, making him smile and laugh, but Dick has never been good at doing anything other than arguing with him and then walking out the door, and Alfred knows that as much as Dick.

Still, Dick appreciates the faith Alfred has in him.

But Dick remembers being up the entire night last night, chasing after Batman's shadows and he remembers the bitter taste in his mouth at the prospect of talking to him again after so long, and all of that resolve has gone from a thousand percent to somewhere hovering near negative ten. Dick won't get listened to. He's _never_ listened to, and why would it start now.

Alfred draws himself up to full height, and carefully rearranges his expression to something a lot blanker. More distant. Crap.

"Master Richard," Alfred says, and Dick's just glad Alfred hasn't stooped to calling him _Master Grayson_. "I will attempt to stop him from acting out too cruelly as Batman, but I cannot guarantee my own success."

Dick hears the hidden message. "Right," he says, shoulders slumping. "Call me, then, if things get out of hand. And then I'll—I'll come to the manor."

* * *

It's months before Dick hears from Alfred again, which isn't typical really, but Dick's too focused on the hell Blüdhaven's suddenly become to pay much attention to that.

He spends his day as Officer Grayson, working with the department to find out the new gang's plan and get a handle on what they're planning. And then he spends his nights as Nightwing, trying to wrestle with the rest of the criminals, and crime is spiraling out of control with the police department's sights set on the new gang that's settled in Blüdhaven.

It's exhausting work, and Dick barely finds time to eat, let alone sleep. He's pulling double shifts as both Nightwing and Officer Grayson—which really means he's pulling like quadruple shifts—and Dick is understandably worn out by the time Alfred contacts him.

"Now's not the best time," he murmurs into the comm. unit when it beeps at him. He stalks across the warehouse and peeks through the skylight. And _yep._ There are his targets. Some of the new members of the Torrio Gang. They won't be here in the morning when the police are planning their raid, he knows. Which means he needs to get them _now._ "Can it wait like fifteen minutes?"

Dick doesn't know who he's talking to, but he hopes it's who he thinks it is. He saved an argument when Alfred says, _"Certainly, sir. I will leave the line open, though, if you don't mind."_

"Sure," Dick says.

He slips through the unlocked skylight and drops down unseen behind the newbie gang members. They're arguing, he realizes, and he can't help but grin at their stupidity. He's tired from overworking himself, so he figures _what the hell._ Maybe he can have some fun with these suckers.

"Just pack it up already," Mr. Tall Dark Glasses says, and seriously? Sunglasses at night in a dimly lit warehouse while packing up precious jewelry? Not the best tactic if he's planning on fighting, but Dick can appreciate the coolness, at least. He looks angry, though, which kind of unbalances the whole look. "The boss says the van'll be here any second. We don't got time to waste."

"Don't you see, though?" Mr. Shorter Than Dick's Shoulders is quivering excitedly, holding up some kind of green jewel with an ominous looking glow. Looking at it makes Dick uneasy, but he pushes the feeling aside and keeps the grin on his face. "All of this is worth a fortune, and we're going to give it up to the boss just like that?"

"If you don't want to get a bullet through the head, ya do as the boss tells ya," Mr. Tall Dark Glasses says, and Dick can appreciate his self-preservation.

Mr. Shorter Than Dick's Shoulders doesn't seem as smart, though. _"We're_ the ones who stole all of this stuff, though. Why should the boss get two million dollars worth of stuff when we don't even get a cent?!"

"It's 1.8 million, actually," Dick chimes in cheerfully, and both goons whip around to face him, the shorter one slipping the green jewel in his pocket. Dick waggles his fingers at them. "And thanks for confessing. That makes my job a lot easier."

"You ain't got nothin' on us," Mr. Tall Dark Glasses spits, hand going for his gun.

Dick rolls his eyes. "Nothing except your finger prints at the crime scene, your finger prints on the stolen jewels, and the fact that I've been recording since I slipped in here a few minutes ago." Giving them a vicious smirk, he adds, "I'll make sure to visit you two in jail."

The resulting fight is nothing he hasn't dealt with before. With fifteen years of vigilantism under his belt, Dick has the goons tied up within a minute, snagging the green jewel from the shorter gang member's pocket. He holds it up in front of the two beaten up and bound men. He doesn't have much time until he has to go for the van the goons had coming to pick them up, but he at least wants to get _this_ out of the way. It's bothering him.

"This wasn't part of the set from the museum," Dick says, frowning as he crouches in front of them. "Where did you get this?"

The shorter groans painfully. "Nicked it off one of the higher ups when they weren't looking. I don't know what it is, I swear. I've heard some guy's looking for glowing green rocks in Metropolis, so I thought I'd be able to cash out and get out of this hell we call a city once and for all."

"So you don't know what it is?" Dick asks. He looks to Mr. Tall Dark Glasses. "How about you? Know anything about this?"

"I don't know nothin'," the guy says as he shakes his head, and Dick has a feeling that they're both eager enough to avoid another beating that they don't care about ratting anybody out anymore. Works for Dick. He can use that. Plus, Dick's pretty good at reading people, and they both seem too stupid to be tricking him.

"Okay," Dick says. "So, how about we talk about the guy who wants glowing green rocks like this. He have a name? A purpose? Know _anything at all_ about him?"

Mr. Shorter Than Dick's Shoulder shakes his head. "He goes by an alias: Mr. Viridi Petram. He always seems to know more about the rock, and from what I've heard from the higher ups, _he_ calls _you."_

Dick closes his eyes in exasperation behind his mask and tries not to sigh. The guy's name is Mr. Green Rock. Perfect. That's probably going to get him absolutely nowhere. And he doesn't really have time to worry about this guy, either, with everything going on.

"Okay, what about your boss?" Dick switches tactics. "Know anything about him?"

Mr. Tall Dark Glasses shuts his mouth and turns away, but Mr. Shorter Than Dick's Shoulders just shrugs noncommittally. Right. If Dick remembers correctly—he does—then the guy isn't very loyal to his own gang. He doesn't seem as afraid of being killed by his own members for betrayal as his partner, so the shorter one is probably Dick's best bet.

"Well?" Dick prompts. "I could hit you again, if you'd prefer it."

"No," Mr. Shorter Than Dick's Shoulders says. "No, I'll talk."

 _"Benny,"_ Mr. Tall Dark Glasses hisses, but he doesn't look surprised. Only angry.

Mr. Shorter Than Dick's Shoulders—Benny—doesn't spare Mr. Tall Dark Glasses another look. "Torrio's a slippery bastard," Benny tells him. And then he spills _everything,_ and for the first time in what has to be weeks, Dick doesn't feel so tired.

"Thank you very much," Dick says, grinning as he steps back. "Now, if you don't mind, I have some police officers on their way to arrest you." He looks at Benny and makes a decision. "Ask for a plea bargain for squealing. They might be able to hook you up with witness protection or something."

Benny nods and then Dick's out of there, just as the tires of several police cruisers screech to a halt in front of the warehouse. There's a van on the other side of the street that Dick had already instinctually placed a tracker on before entering the warehouse, so he just takes the rooftops and sprints away, back towards his apartment.

It's only two in the morning, but Dick's beat. Getting all of this information of the Torrio gang will free him up some, though, and it's with that cheery thought that Dick speaks into the comm. unit, "Hey, Agent A. You still there?"

 _"Yes sir,"_ Alfred answers dutifully. _"I must say, that was wonderfully handled."_

Dick swallows down the automatic _Yeah, well I don't need to brand someone to make them talk_ , and just ends up saying, "Thanks, A. I've picked up a few tips and tricks here and there. Is there something you needed?"

 _"I'm afraid so,"_ Alfred says, and there's a hardness to his voice that makes Dick think that this isn't a social call. _"I'm terribly sorry to ask this of you with your relationship the way it is, and with how tired you are working around the clock, but I was hoping you'd be able to drop by tonight."_

Dick stops in his tracks, standing just a few inches from the edge of the rooftop. Just like that his cheerful mood is gone, replaced with that bitter taste in his mouth that he hates so much.

"Tonight?" he repeats.

 _"Tonight,"_ Alfred confirms. _"I would not ask if I thought I could handle this alone, but I fear that I will not be able to at this rate."_

Dick. Going back to the manor. Tonight. Maybe if it were just the Cave to pick up some evidence, he would be able to handle it, but it's not. This is so obviously an Alfred needs help handling issues that aren't Batman. He needs help handling—handling Bruce.

"Fine," Dick says, barely able to hear himself over the roaring in his ears. "I'll be there in a little over an hour."

* * *

Dick doesn't know why Alfred had thought this would work. Even as he descends the stairs into the Cave, Dick can think of a thousand and one ways why this is going to flop horribly and end with a fight bigger than the one from two years ago. Dick doesn't know if he can handle going through that again. Losing Jason had already hurt enough, but the argument had been the icing on the cake.

No one had been upstairs when Dick had let himself in, so he made his way to the Cave. The place he had been told he'd never wanted to be seen again. Dick hunches in on himself, his hands bunched into his hoodie, like it will protect him from what he knows is coming.

"Alfred?" Dick calls out, and he gets no answer. Biting his lip, Dick trails through the Cave—which it really isn't. It's more like a basement with a lot really upgraded technology and weapons. Finally, he reaches the training room and peeks in, freezing at what he sees.

It's _him._ And he's—he's _killing himself._ Well, okay, so _no._ He's not actually killing himself, but he might as well be with the amount of weight he has on those chains as he's doing _chin ups._ Something in the back of Dick's mind tells him that he shouldn't care, but Dick can't stop himself from slipping into the room and waiting for the other to stop.

He doesn't. He never does. He's probably been aware of Dick's presence from the moment Dick stepped foot on his property, but it's like Dick doesn't even exist. Still, Dick stands there and he waits.

The thing is, Dick's been standing in front of an audience since he was a toddler, performing gravity defying stunts and waving to the crowds as he lands and finishes he routine. He doesn't get nervous anymore. Even after his life in the circus ended, he'd just ended up performing for a different _kind_ of audience. The paparazzi, the judgmental socialites, the teachers and students at school, the citizens he'd saved as Robin, and then later as Nightwing. Performing is in Dick's blood.

So, Dick doesn't understand why his stomach flips just at the sight of the man in front of him. He doesn't get why this it's so hard to even speak.

Maybe it's because deep down, Dick knows that it isn't an act anymore. Not around _him._ Not around Bruce. There's no stage when it comes to Bruce, only judgement.

Finally, Bruce drops down from the bar and starts to untie the chains that are tied around his body. Dick waits it out, and then Bruce is turning to grab a bottle of water, still not looking at him, and Dick can't take the oppressive silence anymore.

"What are you doing?" Dick asks.

"I told you not to come back here," is all Bruce has to offer as he slides past Dick into the main chamber.

"Answering the question will make me leave faster," Dick offers.

Bruce is quiet a moment before he grunts out, "Training."

"To what? Lift a tank?" Dick snorts. "There was enough weight on those chains to kill a normal person."

"Close," Bruce tells him, collapsing in a chair. But he doesn't offer any more information, and Dick doesn't know whether he was referring to the tank or the weight. So he drops the subject.

"Do you know where Alfred is?" Dick asks.

"No," Bruce tells him, and then he sends a glare Dick's way. Ha. Nice try. Those had stopped working when Dick was _twelve._ "And you won't be looking for him."

The anger is threatening to boil up in his veins again, and Dick tries his hardest not to let it out. "And what's that supposed to mean? I can't see Alfred anymore?"

"He's my butler."

"You're such an _ass."_

"Get. Out."

"Fine." Dick spins on his heel and makes for the stairs leading up into the manor but he stops dead as something catches his eye. Dick's breath hitches, and he stares at what's hanging on the wall _in plain sight._ The thing that Bruce hates the most. It's all Dick can do to breathe out, "Is that a gun?"

Bruce doesn't answer.

Dick had forgotten about that conversation Alfred all those months ago. About branding and guns and Bruce doing what he thinks is necessary to finish the mission, and Dick realizes that until now, until he's seen it with his own eyes, he hadn't actually believed that Bruce would willingly use a gun.

"Are you _shitting me?!"_ Dick yells, eyes ablaze with a fire that won't be quenched. He doesn't care about starting an argument anymore. He doesn't _care,_ and he meets Bruce's eyes with deadly intensity. "After all of those lectures. After everything you _said,_ I can't believe you would be such a complete _hypocrite!"_

Bruce stands up, his own rage hidden underneath his calm. But Bruce is simmering. Being accused of something that is true but he won't admit is what he hates most, what stirs him up, and _God._ This is torturous. Dick just wants to leave. But he doesn't, because the branding comes back to Dick's mind, and he can't believe that Bruce has fallen so far to become what he hates most.

"Get out, Dick."

"Oh, look," Dick says with false cheer. "You said my name. That'll _magically_ make me leave."

Bruce glowers at him. "Using a gun is a means to an end. Once I'm finished, I'll get rid of them. Happy?"

"Hardly!" Dick's so frustrated that he could hit something. "You don't get it, do you? You have no idea why I'm even mad!"

"Then _tell me,"_ Bruce says, standing up from the chair. "You keep going around in circles, never getting to the point."

"Me? _I_ keep going around in circles?" Dick scoffs. "Who the hell do you think I learned it from?!"

"The _point,"_ Bruce growls. "You use a gun, so why should it make a difference to you whether I do or not."

 _"That,"_ and Dick is so close to his breaking point right now, "That right there _is_ the point. Five years ago, I told you I wanted to be a cop. Do you know what you told me?" Dick doesn't give Bruce a chance to answer before he's plowing on. "You said that if I carry around a gun and a badge, then _I'm no son of yours._ "

Bruce doesn't say anything. He never does.

Dick clenches his fists. "So I became a cop. A damn good one, too, and you didn't give a shit about me anymore. Fine. Whatever. But then you go and arm yourself with guns, start branding people with death sentences?! What the _hell_ even gives you the right?!"

 _"Get. Out."_ Bruce's voice is dangerously low, and Dick knows that no matter how much he yells and screams and punches, Bruce won't hear a single word that comes out of Dick's mouth. There will be nothing Dick can do or say, because this is Batman he's dealing with. The Judge, the Juror, and now, apparently, the Executor. _"Now."_

"Fine," Dick chokes past the lump in his throat. His eyes are burning with tears, but he thinks that they're more from anger than anything. And it's as his running up the stairs that he shouts behind him, "Maybe I'll go get myself shot. See how you feel about them, then."

And he doesn't regret it. He doesn't.

* * *

He does regret it. Immensely. Bruce's parents were _shot,_ and Jason was just killed recently, too. Even if Bruce doesn't care about him anymore, if Dick had gotten himself shot like he'd said, if he'd died, then that would have weighed on Bruce's conscious, too. Just like everything in his life does.

So it's this regret more than anything that has Dick driving to Gotham after a few days of wallowing in self-hatred and investigating Mr. Viridi Petram—who Dick finds out is _Lex Luthor_. The glowing green rock is some kind of weapon against _Kryptonians,_ he finds out, and that's when he's hopping into his bike and making his way out of the city.

The Batsignal's alight, he sees, but Gotham has this sort of hush over it, like it's holding its breath, and Dick doesn't like it one bit. That usually only happens when everyone's waiting for the next villain attack from the latest psychopath escapee of Arkham.

And that's when he discovers the wreckage. It's everywhere. Entire _buildings_ are broken. It looks like someone just went to war, and Dick thanks his lucky stars that the damage only seems to affect the abandoned parts of Gotham—the parts people had given up on, because sometimes there really isn't hope. There's more places like that in Blüdhaven, though.

Something inhuman _roars,_ and Dick's driving towards the sound as fast as he can, his heart in his throat. He gets there—too late. He's too late. He doesn't understand what's happening, but there's Bruce, and a woman with a sword, and they're standing over the body of something inhuman and—Superman. That's Superman.

Dick dives off his bike the moment he's close enough and _sprints_ toward where Bruce—Batman is. Batman barely stops Dick from barreling into him, gripping his shoulders just a little too tight.

"He's dead," Dick whispers with wide eyes.

"Nightwing," Batman calls, and there's grief in his voice. He's _grieving._ For _Superman._ Who'd been about to kill (Yes, Dick had hacked into the Cave's files, and yes Alfred had filled him in on the rest). And Dick doesn't understand what's going on. "Look at me."

Dick doesn't look at him. Instead, he leans into Bruce's bulk, suddenly light-headed. He doesn't know why, though. He shouldn't—he doesn't _know_ Superman. He shouldn't be feeling like something had just been ripped from him again.

"Dick," Bruce says, his voice a touch gentler. "You shouldn't be here."

But Dick does know Bruce, and when Dick finally looks up at him, there's something like an apology in his eyes and in what Dick can see of his face beneath the cowl, and Dick can't help but blurt out, "I'm sorry, Bruce. I didn't—I didn't mean it. You _know_ I didn't mean it."

"I know," Bruce says. And again, Dick wonders what changed for him. What had Dick missed these past few years. What's made Bruce so different? Bruce pulls him in, tucks Dick's head underneath his chin just like when Dick was a kid. There's still something unresolved between them, but Dick thinks that maybe this time Bruce might actually be willing to listen to him.

Dick pulls away from Bruce, digs through one of his hidden pouches and pulls out a small box, barely bigger than his big toe, and hands it to Bruce. "Here."

"The shard you find in Blüdhaven," Bruce acknowledges. At Dick's questioning look, Bruce admits, "Alfred told me about the case you were working that night."

"Oh," Dick says, wondering why that surprises him. He swallows that down, and continues, "I think we should talk. About—you know, whether I'm allowed back home?"

Bruce grimaces, and glances at the woman with the sword. "How long do we have?" he asks her.

She shakes her head, looking between the two curiously. "I do not know, but considering they used the bomb, they must have eyes on us. They'll know where we are."

"So not long," Bruce concludes, and the woman nods. Bruce turns back to look at Dick. "At the Cave. Later. I promise."

"And you'll listen to me this time?" Dick wants to make sure that he's not going to get his hopes up again, just for this to fail miserably.

Bruce nods. "I'll listen. Now go."

Dick leaves, and lets Bruce handle the tragedy that's befallen the world.

* * *

Dick and Bruce talk, eventually, and it isn't perfect. There's a giant rift to mend, one that's only been widened by Jason's death, so it takes a few days—almost a week—actually, for Dick and Bruce to even start coming to terms with each other.

But by then, Dick can think and say Bruce's name without his chest hurting and he can enter Gotham without that bitter taste in his mouth, and that's so much better than how it's been for the past five years—the past two especially. He thinks that maybe things will eventually be okay between them, enough that Dick can come home for Sunday dinner, joke around with Bruce, be around Alfred as much as he wants, and work with his partner.

And hey, who knew, but Batman's managed to make some friends along the way, too.

* * *

 **Hey, for anyone who wants to participate, I'm hosting a sleepover saturday this weekend on my tumblr. Info will be posted there, but basically, there will be drabble requests, ask memes, stuff like that!**


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